Complications
by battyderp
Summary: The heartless killer and the streetwise gamin – a timeless tale. But when it is so often left to Montparnasse to pick up the pieces, for once it is he that is forced to accept comfort from Éponine. One-shot. Semi-sequal to 'I'm Your Secret, You're My Worst Friend' and 'Love Is For a Beggar'.


_A/N: I KNOW I'M SORRY I JUST CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THEM. So, this is the third in the instalment, though you don't have to read the others to know what's going on – they can all be stand-alones. If you do wanna check out the others, however, you know where to find them. You've all been so amazing and supportive, so thank you, my darlings ahaha!_

_Enjoy, and review if you like. I own nothing but the fic. :D_

_xx_

It was supposed to be a simple robbery. No mess, no complications – Montparnasse was able to pull it off in his sleep.

He had been watching the bourgeois since the late evening; the respectable man, he had discovered, was in the process of sullying his reputation, opening his purse to prostitutes whilst his wife cared for their baby back home. Montparnasse had felt a brief flash of disgust when he had first discovered this, before reminding himself that what the gentleman did behind closed doors was no one's business but his own; besides, constantly revealing what he hid within his pockets allowed the young prowler to catch a glimpse, and what he saw made his eyes spark with excitement: it was full to bursting with sous, franks, centimes, the lot. That would buy a lot more than bread.

When Montparnasse attacked, he attacked swiftly, scarcely making a sound as he broke free of his accomplices - the shadows. He was lithe on his feet, and had the well-to-do man collared and restrained before he had a chance to cry out. Though he was there solely for the money, he always made sure to drag his victims down so they were forced to face him; if they had their gazes on the cobblestones, he could rob them and be gone without them ever seeing the face of their assailant. But if they caught a glimpse of the beautiful young dandy, it gave him the perfect excuse to slit their throats. He couldn't go around leaving loose ends, now, could he?

He smiled down calmly at the man, eyes burning with a hideous cold flame that contrasted nicely with the terror and fury in the bourgeois' gaze. With a simple flick of his wrist that had become second nature to him, Montparnasse was in striking position, the silver of the moonlight glinting off of the blade. Once the knife was out, he didn't dawdle; unlike in novels, he did not hesitate long before doing the deed (though he was able to read little more than his own name); he did not give great, long speeches that allowed the victim to flee. When he was in position to kill, he savoured the moment only for a heartbeat.

"Bad for you, good for me," he murmured softly to the man held beneath him, jerking his head back with the hand that had secured itself around the bourgeois' hair, forcing his head to an unnatural angle that exposed his neck perfectly. Montparnasse saw him swallow a few times, desperately taking in everything for the last time. He leaned in closer so his words were but a mere whisper: "But see, you won't suffer for long. I'm not that cruel."

Tightening his grip on the handle of the blade, it would have taken only one second longer – the man would have been bleeding out, throat ripped, unable to make a sound other than the odd gurgle or splutter. Montparnasse would have been cradling him in his arms, at least offering him the strange comfort of his killer before he was swept into oblivion; he would have been dead and penniless before his blood had a chance to ruin the fop's waistcoat. Only, that wasn't what happened.

At the last moment, Montparnasse's thigh exploded in agony; he glanced down in alarm to see that the idiot had plunged a knife of his own into his leg, so deep only the handle was visible amidst blood, flesh and torn fabric. His gaze flicked back to the bourgeois, whose eyes were huge, swimming with indescribable emotion at the realisation his last-ditch effort had been a success – if he was going to die, he wasn't going without a fight, his eyes seemed to say. Montparnasse bared his teeth, blade still pressed to the other man's throat. A bead of dark crimson trickled down to touch his fingers.

"Congratulations," he growled, infuriated and horrified when his voice came out strangled by pain. Taking a second to collect himself, he hissed through clenched teeth, words spoken in a tone that was not so much terrifyingly chilling as filled with pure malice enough to make the most formidable opponent quake in their boots, "Now I'll be cruel."

But, before he had a chance to strike, the bourgeois kicked upwards, landing a blow to Montparnasse's throbbing wound that made him fly backwards. As the young crook struggled to right himself from where he had landed, sprawled out on the curb, the older man scrambled to his feet and wasted no time in fleeing; he only paused to spit on the injured dandy. Montparnasse sneered up at him, but his sneer fell short when he winced in pain. He attempted to launch himself at the bourgeois, but all the man had to do was step backwards in order to evade his grasp. Laughing haughtily, he turned on his heel and promptly disappeared around a corner.

Ordinarily, Montparnasse would scarcely have had time to fall before he was on his feet once more, gracefulness knowing no bounds. But this time, he was half-blinded by what felt like fire working itself up his leg. Shaking his head, indignant, he rubbed at his eyes vigorously with the back of his hand before slowly hauling himself to his feet with all the strength he could muster. "Bastard," he spat under his breath when he stumbled, scarcely managing to brace himself against the filthy stone wall; for a moment, he was able to stand on one foot, shoulder propping him up, before he lost his footing and toppled over, landing heavily.

He tried once more, with the same results. Finally, he gave in, needing to rest for a few minutes before attempting to drag himself into an alley once more, like a pathetic mutt; at least there, in the shadows, he would be hidden from sight and no one would be witness to his humiliating ordeal. If Gavroche or Babet caught wind of this, he would never hear the end of it. _'Oh, little 'Parnasse got a booboo? Does 'Ponine need to kiss it better, eh? The cat got pounced on by a rat! Losin' your touch, boy!' _He would far rather lose his life than his dignity. Without fear and respect, he was just another miserable wretch fallen on hard times.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he relented and allowed himself to lie directly in the centre of the sidewalk; he could feel the sharp coldness of the stones even through his fine, black redingote. With one arm draped over his forehead, he stared up at the moon, half-concealed by dark clouds, waiting for the chill of the night to numb him, for his head to clear. In a sudden fit of rage, he lashed out a fist and brought it crashing down hard against the bricks. How the hell had this happened? He was better than this! How had he allowed that _bourgeois_ to get the better of _him?_ He, Montparnasse, renowned throughout the whole of Paris. Closing his eyes against the pain, his hand drifted down to the blade and he braced himself to wrench it out. He had been through worse, he should be used to it – he knew that.

That was when he picked up the sound of soft footsteps making their way towards him from behind. Snapping open his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath through pearly white teeth that gritted against each other, preparing for an onslaught of mockery, perhaps someone come to investigate or carry him to the hospital. If they even tried, he'd skin the bastard. Make him squeal like a stuck pig, that was for sure.

But the voice that spoke was not one he had been expecting. "Need a little help there, Monsieur 'Parnasse?"

'_Ponine. _"No," he replied stubbornly, moving only to lay both hands on his stomach in as relaxed a manner as he could manage with shaky limbs. "Just thought I'd do a spot of stargazing. It's quite comfortable down 'ere."

"Oh, come now, 'Parnasse!" Éponine cried after a soft snort, gently kicking the boy in the arm. "I'd let you help me."

"I wouldn't help. I'd just step over you, continue on my way."

He could imagine her rolling her eyes before she stepped around him to crouch down at his side. Montparnasse's eyes flicked to her as he felt her small, thin hand hovering over the dagger imbedded in his thigh. "Don't touch that," he snapped, fear fuelling him as he hurried to prop himself up on his elbows, not wanting to think of the awful damage he was inflicting on his poor clothes. Fear? He had been under the impression he had long since tossed the crippling emotion aside, not having any need for it on his place on the food chain. "You'll kill me, you clumsy idiot!"

"And if we don't get this pin out, the wound'll get infected," she replied evenly, raising her chin as though she were the world expert on the matter. In this state, she was impossible to argue with. "And you know what happens when stuff gets infected? You die. Plain and simple, 'Parnasse. Know where I learned that? From a medical student over at the Musain. So take it up with him, or let me get this thing out."

Montparnasse curled his lip, but ultimately left her to her own devices, though he was still watching her every move like an eagle, swatting her hand away when she sent a jolt of pain shooting up his leg. "Be careful!" he snapped, hesitantly drawing back and allowing her to get on with her self-appointed task. If he trusted anyone to do the job, it was Éponine – she had acted as nurse to Patron-Minette on more than one occasion. Beneath her rugged exterior, she just desired someone to care for. Babet would simply yank it out, pour some alcohol on it and call himself a doctor. But he wasn't going to go easy on her either way. As 'Ponine continued to inspect the wound, something else occurred to him and he muttered, "What were you doin' at the Musain, anyway? You can't afford that place." After a pause: "Actually, on second thought, you can't afford any place."

Éponine was quiet for a long moment, gaze fixed on her hands as she worked her supposed magic; 'Parnasse snorted and rolled his shoulders in an effort to conceal the fact it bothered him to see he had hurt her. But he immediately scolded himself – he had hurt many people, would hurt countless more.

Finally, he was the one to break the uncomfortable silence that had lapsed over them. "It's that _Monsieur Marius_ fellow, isn't it?" he half-growled, eyes narrowed, scraping his nails against the sidewalk. "The one that had you in such a frightful mess back in the park." He took her lack of self-defence as confirmation. Montparnasse felt something inside of him snap, like an already trembling tether that had been pulled too tight.

Without the slightest of warnings, he had reached forward and secured her chin in his hand, forcing her not only to look up, but also to move closer lest she wished her neck to snap. "He doesn't love you, 'Ponine," he hissed, face mere inches from her own. His eyes were animalistic, truly a mirror to the soul. "It'll get you killed, you hear me? He's a good-for-nothing bastard, and you're an idiot with your head in the clouds. Snap out of it, before I make you." He ended with his voice quiet – in other words, terrifying. Others could justify their words by saying _'it was the pain speaking!'_, but not he. The pain may have pushed him over the edge, but that side of him was always lurking just beneath the surface.

Having endured Montparnasse's wrath before, Éponine had grown to realise he would never act on his threats when it came to her. He may promise to flay her alive, he may go through with the warning if it were anyone else, but when it came to the Thénardier creature, it was as though there was some invisible phantom keeping his knife sheathed. He was not known for his mercy, for he had made a point of his unforgiving, unrelenting nature. But then she came into the picture. When she was gone, he once more became the heartless killer. But with her, he was transformed into a shadow of his former self. She had a strange effect on him. And he hated it.

As such, she merely blinked at him calmly, though something stirred within her eyes, something unsettling, something violent that reflected the look in Montparnasse's own gaze. For a second he wondered what this was, only to discover a moment later; whilst they were locked in their staring contest, 'Parnasse almost forgetting the blade imbedded in his leg when faced with her magnificent, sorrowful blue irises, 'Ponine managed to creep her hand behind her without his noticing. Wrapping her spidery fingers around the handle of the knife, she smiled before jerking her arm upwards with all the strength stored in that pathetically scrawny body of hers.

Before he could stop himself, Montparnasse had let out a startled cry, having had no time to prepare himself for the pain. As soon as he realised what he had done, however, he broke off and instead snarled a string of profanities through clenched teeth, hands fumbling for something, anything, to help him through the searing agony; they found themselves clutching Éponine's chemise, fists bunching it. "What the hell did you do that for?" he managed to choke out, eyes huge.

"Well, at least it's out," she replied with a nonchalant shrug, wiping her blood-stained hands on her tattered skirt. She seemed to pay no attention to the frenzy he was in, behaving like a panicking cat that was forced to curl up into a tight ball instead of lashing out at the nearest thing – if he allowed himself to do so, Éponine wouldn't make it out alive. So he raised his eyes to the night sky, heart pounding in his ears, shakily releasing 'Ponine to instead press his palms to the wound that was now gushing blood.

"So instead of infection, I'll die of blood loss," he muttered under his breath bitterly, fighting to keep his breathing level.

Éponine threw her head to the side to set him with an unimpressed stare, eyebrows raised from where she had settled down on the curb, knees drawn up to her chest and hands around her ankles. "You know, 'Parnasse," she began, seeming faintly amused despite the apparent danger to his life. "You don't look it, but really, you're just one, big cry-baby dressed in the get-up of a dandy."

At a loss for words, he simply frowned at her; if anyone else had spoken to him in such a manner, they would be the one bleeding out on the street.

Before he could get a word in, she continued, no longer looking at him. "You'll be fine. Look at this." And holding out her bare arm, she showed him a long cut that ran along the underside of her arm, on the soft flesh, beginning at the bottom of her calloused palm and ending at her elbow. It had long since healed, so much so it now almost blended in with the rest of her skin – but it still somehow managed to look ghastly. His eyes flicked to hers. "See? Nothin' to worry about. I got this when I was thirteen, helpin' out you lot. My father said_ 'we can't go to hospital, so either press on it til it stops bleeding, or shut up'_. Do you remember that? You were there. Everyone else left because I was crying, but not you. Monsieur Montparnasse, you stayed with me and you held my hand and you waited until it stopped bleeding. Remember?" She nodded to herself. "So I'm gonna return the favour and stay with you till it stops bleeding."

'Parnasse stared at the back of her head for a while longer, before finally dropping his gaze, both guilty and irritated at the same time. She was right. Still, she was a girl that had cried at thirteen – and here he was, on the verge of tears, assassin of Paris, nineteen years old? It was disgraceful. Pressing down harder on the wound, he carefully shifted over until he was sitting beside her, shoulders gently brushing against each other. 'Ponine glanced over to look him over rather arrogantly; but he caught the brief flicker of concern on her face. "Just so," he grumbled, "Even so, I liked these trousers. Now he died for nothing."

By _he_, Montparnasse of course meant the young man he had murdered to acquire them.

They sat in silence for a long while, Montparnasse taking to gently massaging the wound. He thought about everything and nothing. Suddenly, Éponine burst out laughing. His eyes flicked to her curiously, about to snap at her for finding the situation humorous. But then she asked in between chuckles, "Did you even get the purse, 'Parnasse?"

He stared at her incredulously for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before he finally smiled slyly and shook his head. "The knife in my leg got in the way," he answered, shaking his head and looking away to hide his smile, laughing quietly to himself. Leave it to 'Ponine to make him laugh whilst bleeding out on the sidewalk.

Still smiling slightly, Éponine shifted into a crouch, carefully laying her hands across his and prying them away from the wound. He was wary at first, shooting her a look that seemed to say, _'you better know what you're doing'. _She ignored him. One hand still interlaced with his bloody fingers, the other gently grazed over the injury. Finally, she met his eyes with a triumphant smile. "What'd I tell you? Trust me."

Trust was not something that came naturally to Montparnasse, and for that he was glad – it had kept him alive. It was far easier to act on instinct; he would rather slash a throat than later discover the life he had spared had been that of a police informant.

"And you should trust me about that Marius," he replied gruffly, voice a little sharp as he shook her from him. Perhaps too quickly, he attempted to push himself to his feet, one hand still holding his wound, all too conscious of it and not at all eager to expose it to any further complications.

Alarm flashed in 'Ponine's eyes as she leapt to her feet, ducking underneath 'Parnasse's arm in order to support him. He shoved her away, but she was back a moment later, not one to be deterred from her objective. "Sit down, Monsieur," she insisted irritably, glaring up at him. In a quieter but no less stern tone, she added, "And you shouldn't speak of him like that."

"I'm sure he says far worse behind your back, 'Ponine," he growled, wincing at the pain that shot up his leg. Still, he was stubborn to a fault and refused to be forced back down; despite this, he accepted Éponine's help without any further protests, not at all happy about having to rely on her but grateful she was there nevertheless. Whilst being alone through the ordeal would leave his dignity intact, he would be lying if he claimed he would be better off without her. It was beginning to seem as though she had rescued him more times than he had her. "At least I say what I think to your face."

"And I'm sure you're right, 'Parnasse," she answered with a stifled sigh. "But now who's bein' the idiot? Sit down or I'll make you."

Montparnasse smiled, light-headed from the pain, feeling as though he were just another simple drunkard. Her threats weren't as empty as his. "Oh?" he murmured, her dark, filthy hair sticking to his lips. But before he could do anything further, a dark grey cloud passed over his vision and he stumbled backwards, pain shooting behind his eyes as though they were ready to explode, as though gunpowder had been stuffed within his head. Not having time to utter so much as a confused yelp, he felt his knees buckle beneath him; his hands clutched at air uselessly. _There goes what little respect she had left for me,_ he thought glumly as he crashed against the pavement.

He was unconscious for no longer than a minute, but in that time Éponine had somehow managed to drag him into the mouth of an alley, using her threadbare coat for a pillow that she had tucked under his lolling head. She had not panicked; such a thing was not in her nature. Montparnasse groggily flickered open his burning eyes, faintly recognising her features through an agonised haze, head spinning, as though looking through a screen spattered by dark paint. Her legs were crossed, elbows on her knees and chin resting in her palms, index fingers brushing against her ears.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepy head," she greeted with a smug smile, eyebrows quirked. "Careful, 'Parnasse, that's the second time I've been right tonight." Her arms were now bare, but she seemed accustomed to the freezing temperature, and other than the goosebumps that covered her skin, she appeared more-or-less indifferent, a soldier that had faced far worse and had come to accept suffering as a part of life.

That was when he noticed one addition to her attire: his top-hat atop her head, slipping down over the top of her ear.

"You don't suit that, Éponine," was the first thing he mumbled, trying to prop himself up with one elbow only to have the Thénardier girl push him back down easily, resolutely. He was not going anywhere. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he cursed and hoped that she hadn't completely destroyed the back of his suit dragging him there. But another cringe forced the thoughts from his head.

"Don't I?" she exclaimed, sitting up straighter to finger the brim of the hat. Glancing around the alley way, she finally added, "No mirror – too bad! I often find ones lyin' around. I always wonder to myself how they end up here. Ladies don't just carry full-size ones around with them, do they? Maybe they do! How stupid." Her gaze turned to the young dandy before her. "Do you know, Monsieur Montparnasse? You know their type better than me."

'Parnasse chuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe so, but the ladies I'm familiar with are usually too preoccupied to talk to me about mirrors."

A mischievous smile spread across Éponine's face. "Ah! That's true. Right, sorry." Her expression switched to motherly concern as she scooted forward, naked ankles collecting more grime. "How are ya feelin' then, hm? Thumbs up or down?"

"The jury's still out." He rubbed his temples. Turning his head to the side, his eyes fell on the girl, vision clearer now, and he flashed a crooked smile, eyelids still heavy. "C'mere." With that, he caught her by the waist and pulled her off balance before she could gather herself or protest, securing his arms around her once she was draped across him. Though she was clearly indignant, pride wounded, she did not struggle. Montparnasse was not the tallest young man around, but he still scarcely felt her atop him, the girl nothing more than skin and bones, ice cold.

"Careful," she warned, gazing down at him amusedly. "Your leg won't thank you. And neither will Monsieur Babet, or Claquesous, or Guelemer, or my father if you can't work."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes, raising his eyebrows in a bored, nonchalant manner. "They can complain all they like," he shot back, unimpressed. Then his lips hinted at a smile; but, unlike the others he had previously worn, this was warm, true, gentle, and his fingertips that softly reached up to trace along her jawline were the same. He finished in a low voice, "Are you complainin', 'Ponine? That's all I care about right now."

Éponine answered with a quiet snort, leaning down to graze her lips over his teasingly before pulling back to look down at him, holding all the cards and loving every moment of it. When he craned his head up to follow her, she grinned thinly at his eager desperation; he was like this with no one but her. There _was_ no one like her. Montparnasse scowled up at her, eyes glinting dangerously when he didn't get what he wanted.

"Gimme back my hat," he sneered, unwrapping one hand from where it had been tightening around her hips to raise it to her head. Before he could reclaim it, however, she rolled her weight so one elbow was pinning his arm.

Smiling, she laughed lightly, "Come and get it, fop."

Neither of them could get another provocative word in; her lips were against his, his free hand working his way through her matted hair, giving her no way out. The heartless killer and the streetwise gamin – a timeless tale.


End file.
